On the Frontier eBook

“You know not what you say, father,” said
the young girl, angrily, exasperated by a slight twinkle
in the American’s eye.

“Not so,” said Cranch. “Perhaps
one of the American nation may take him at his word.”

“Then, caballeros, you will, for the moment
at least, possess yourselves of the house and its
poor hospitality,” said Don Juan, with time-honored
courtesy, producing the rustic key of the gate of the
patio. “It is at your disposition, caballeros,”
he repeated, leading the way as his guests passed
into the corridor.

Two hours passed. The hills were darkening on
their eastern slopes; the shadows of the few poplars
that sparsedly dotted the dusty highway were falling
in long black lines that looked like ditches on the
dead level of the tawny fields; the shadows of slowly
moving cattle were mingling with their own silhouettes,
and becoming more and more grotesque. A keen
wind rising in the hills was already creeping from
the canada as from the mouth of a funnel, and sweeping
the plains. Antonio had forgathered with the
servants, had pinched the ears of the maids, had partaken
of aguardiente, had saddled the mules,—­Antonio
was becoming impatient.

And then a singular commotion disturbed the peaceful
monotony of the patriarchal household of Don Juan
Briones. The stagnant courtyard was suddenly
alive with peons and servants, running hither and thither.
The alleys and gardens were filled with retainers.
A confusion of questions, orders, and outcrys rent
the air, the plains shook with the galloping of a
dozen horsemen. For the acolyte Francisco, of
the Mission San Carmel, had disappeared and vanished,
and from that day the hacienda of Don Juan Briones
knew him no more.

CHAPTER III

When Father Pedro saw the yellow mules vanish under
the low branches of the oaks beside the little graveyard,
caught the last glitter of the morning sun on Pinto’s
shining headstall, and heard the last tinkle of Antonio’s
spurs, something very like a mundane sigh escaped him.
To the simple wonder of the majority of early worshipers—­the
half-breed converts who rigorously attended the spiritual
ministrations of the Mission, and ate the temporal
provisions of the reverend fathers—­he deputed
the functions of the first mass to a coadjutor, and,
breviary in hand, sought the orchard of venerable
pear trees. Whether there was any occult sympathy
in his reflections with the contemplation of their
gnarled, twisted, gouty, and knotty limbs, still bearing
gracious and goodly fruit, I know not, but it was
his private retreat, and under one of the most rheumatic
and misshapen trunks there was a rude seat. Here
Father Pedro sank, his face towards the mountain wall
between him and the invisible sea. The relentless,
dry, practical Californian sunlight falling on his
face grimly pointed out a night of vigil and suffering.
The snuffy yellow of his eyes was injected yet burning,
his temples were ridged and veined like a tobacco
leaf; the odor of desiccation which his garments always
exhaled was hot and feverish, as if the fire had suddenly
awakened among the ashes.